A Thousand Voices Tell a Single Story
by Nevoreiel
Summary: Nolan!verse: The Joker prepares for the police parade, with helping minds and helping hands. Joker/Thomas Schiff.


**Title:** A Thousand Voices Tell a Single Story  
**Rating:** R  
**Pairing:** Joker/Thomas Schiff  
**Prompt:** movie!verse Joker/Thomas Shift (schizophrenic guy Dent interrogated); police uniform kink  
**Word count:** 1,090  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, suing is unnecessary.  
**Notes:** Written for the Batman Kink Meme on LJ. For a kink!fic, I think I've overthought it (as in "how would a paranoid schizophrenic _think_?"). Anyway, hope it's satisfactory, if not exactly porny.

--

The clown – the Joker – the one from TV, he had come to them. With a burst of skittering laughter and an armful of automatics that clatter on the floor when dropped.

"It's dangerous out there, in the real world. Not exactly friendly. Not exact-ly," he clicks his tongue, peers into their blank, baffled faces, fast-blinking eyes. "Not many opportunities for, uh, bright lads like you." A squeak as a gloved finger jabs at random. At pale pink, trembling lips of another resident.

_He knows, he knows,_ it swirls in dizzying circles, round and round like a mantra. Thomas doesn't know whether to be relieved or concerned; he doesn't like it when the dark corners are prodded and stirred by the doctors. But no, he wants to tell the voices to shut it because he can't hear over the din.

Thomas studies the swathe of red spilled across the sly moving mouth, imagines bones crunched between those teeth. No, no, the clown grins and it's reassuring. The illusion buckles, bends and the blood's just greasepaint. He giggles in helpless relief.

Then his vision swims with red lips, red tongue, and snapping, yellow teeth.

"And what's _your_ name?" The voice is solicitously kind, high-pitched and lilting, the head tilted in childish curiosity.

He hiccups and manages to stutter, "Thomas."

"Tom, Tom. May I call you Tom?" Without waiting for an answer, the Joker continues, "What did you do, to get locked up here?" The friendly manner masks a sharp mind and an even sharper knife. It wasn't there before and it glints in the Joker's hand. And it's riveting.

"Nothing," Thomas is shaking his head, mouth pulled in tight so he doesn't spill his guts. He's much too important. The voices echoing in his head agree, hissing a quiet warning.

"Nothing?" The Joker chokes wetly on his laughter. "Are you sure? Would you like to? _Do_ something, that is."

Thomas nods vigorously.

"Oh, yes, he would," the Joker mutters, Thomas momentarily forgotten, shrugging his shoulders as he straightens the coat. He turns, he spreads his arms, surveys them all: bewildered still. With an expectant eyebrow raise, he enlightens them, "Then let's get to work."

--

"I don't like to stand out, but these just looked out_standing_!" The Joker informs them, after, as if urging them to understand. Dusting off his lapels and slicking back his hair, the armed guard wriggling – tied tight and gagged and blindfolded – at his feet.

"You boys sure know how to have a good time," he clucks appreciatively, already working on the buttons and the zips, tongue flicking at the raggedy edges of his smile. Then everyone gets the idea and there's laughter and muffled groans as the policemen are stripped.

The uniform is just right. Thomas flicks the tassels, rotates his shoulders, watches in fascination as the clown face melts in front of his very eyes.

"The Mayor is going to turn in a _tour de force _performance," the Joker grates out as he scrubs at his face, puckering up for the grimy mirror in the bathroom, hands working as he studies his new uniform. It fits well. "And in this production dress code will be strictly observed."

The Joker knows he's being watched, so he struts and clears his throat. "Hot little number, isn't it?" He's running his hands down the front and he's smiling that persistent smile. Thomas can't help but smile back.

Tip of bright tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. In titillation. He affixes a new, shiny name tag to Thomas's uniform, taps it with his nail, "Much better."

Thomas can't help himself; he's trying to see the name that's etched there. But the Joker's caught him by the chin and there's a hint of malice and menace that sends a shiver right down to his gut. "Look," he grinds out, the bones grind in his grip, "Look at _me_ when I speak."

He looks up. He so wants to please, drawn to that face – carved like a pumpkin – in morbid fascination. Drawn like a moth to naked flame. He reaches out a trembling hand, hesitates at touching, intrinsically feeling the forbidden, settles for running his palm over the row of cold metal buttons all done up.

"Look, but don't touch," a roar and those teeth snap again, making him jittery, nervous. Then adds plaintively, "You're wrinkling the threads." His wandering hand bent back, creaking at the strain. But he won't make a sound, not until he's got something to say.

With a snort and a shove, the Joker lets go. And Thomas, palms up, out, open, learns that the Joker does not like to be touched. But, oh, how he likes to touch. He's thumbing at Thomas's mouth, glove tucked into his breast pocket, curiously turning his head this way and that. He shrugs, shoves until Thomas buckles to his knees, to the dusty, cracked tiles.

"Y'see? I'm a flexible guy, Tom. And we've got time to kill." It's all very matter-of-fact: the gesture crude, sloppy, the voices enraged, pathetic.

Giddy, Thomas is willing to try anything and all he has to do is smile wider. He's more than willing, he's eager. But they've got time, so he's patient, mouth hanging open as the Joker shuffles, shimmies closer, working open the uniform with one hand, the other pressing his face in and in. Until he thinks he'll tear, the tension of lips pulled tight, still only a pale imitation of the grimace, grin.

Steady work, steady hands curled into fists on his thighs, a hint of teeth seems to do it. The sound echoes in the bare apartment, steady gasps and regular groans, the twitch of flesh hot on his tongue, the twitch of fingers tugging insistently on his ears.

If he averts his eyes, he'll see them, the others, watching, he knows. But he'll be good, he won't look. At them. The Joker is easy to jealousy, and he does not like to ask twice, so Thomas concentrates on keeping still, keeping compliant, keeping his eyes fixed to the pale, washed out face. Not on the gaping, moving gash, but on the slitted eyes.

A delicious jolt as the hand in his hair yanks once, twice, a whole handful pried loose, and, with a hiss, the Joker's spent. Thomas swallows all, compulsively, dutifully, – mustn't get the uniform dirty – with a devious pride of having pleased. As he chokes, he revels in the silence of one voice as the Joker repeats, "killing time, time to kill," over and over, sing-song and tumbling.

_end._


End file.
